


Undertow

by MadcapRomantic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blink and you'll miss it, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Derek is bad at emotions, Derek is bad at words, Everyone lives, Explicit Sex, Knotting, Licking, M/M, Mates, Mild Gore, Misunderstandings, Top Derek Hale, True Mates, Write ALL the tropes!, mild violence, minor dubcon, no one dies and everything is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadcapRomantic/pseuds/MadcapRomantic
Summary: Stiles Stilinski shouldn’t be surprised when he spends the night of his eighteenth birthday tied to a chair, gagged, and suffering through a mild concussion.He shouldn’t, but he still manages to be.





	1. Riptide

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to try my hand at PWP. Then, 12k words and minor plot happened and I don't know what wrong turn I took, but at least I eventually got here. Lessons were learned, drinks were had.
> 
> Kudos to my magnificent hetero life-mate and partner in crime [spacepint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacepint/pseuds/spacepint); without her, this mess of garbage would instead be a heap.
> 
> On today's bingo card, please mark off the following; possessive Derek, feral Derek, healing werewolf salvia, mates, knotting, bad communication skills, and no one died and everything is fine.
> 
> If you'd like, check me out on tumblr as madcapromantic, or my exclusive Sterek blog as towhomthewolfkingbows.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated.

Stiles Stilinski shouldn’t be surprised when he spends the night of his eighteenth birthday tied to a chair, gagged, and suffering through a mild concussion.

He shouldn’t, but he still manages to be.

Just a little.

Sure, he’s been running with the wolves for years now, and, honestly, given the rate he’s kidnapped, he should always carry a pre-written, witnessed, notarized ransom note on him at all times, but that doesn’t mean he’s _completely_ used to getting knocked out and carried off.

And, well, yeah - he’s the pack’s human; it’s an occupational hazard. But there are only so many times a guy can get clocked upside the head before he runs out of lies to tell people regarding the bruises on his skull.

At least he’s somewhere familiar this time.

Stiles wiggles enough to push the gag out of his mouth. It’s not hard; though, to be fair, it’s likely he’s just highly skilled at it at this point.

“Hey!” Yelling at his kidnappers isn’t the best idea, but Stiles’ has had worse.

An old crone appears in his vision, and Stiles feels embarrassment color his cheeks. How’d he get knocked out by someone’s _grandma_?

“What time is it?”

Derek’s bed is to his left, meaning the clock is behind him.

“Eleven fifty-seven. What does it matter?”

Stiles smiles. He knows it’s a little early for everyone to be heading back after the movie, but unless they decided to stop and pick up food on their way back - which was unlikely, considering how surprisingly well Derek had started stocking the cupboards when ‘pack bonding night’ became a weekly ordeal - they were due back soon.

Very soon.

Soon enough that they might be within earshot of the loft.

So Stiles, because he’s a cheeky little shit - and to help relieve him of the anger aimed at his friends for going to see a movie _without him_ , and _on his birthday_ -takes a deep breath...

And just starts screaming.

The witch obviously isn’t prepared for it - well, she kind of was, what with having gagged Stiles in the first place - and the wrinkly old biddy clamps her hands over her ears and makes a face.

When Stiles goes to take a breath, he also gets a backhand to the face. It hurts enough to make little stars explode in his vision, and in his shock, he stops screaming.

“-you think he’ll protect you, your precious alpha,” the witch is babbling while Stiles tries to get his bearings, “but he hasn’t even _claimed_ you-”

“Hey!” Stiles spits, knowing there’s likely blood tinging his saliva, if the taste of copper in his mouth is anything to go by. “I may not be a werewolf, but I’m part of the pack, and nothing you can say-”

“Even better!” The witch’s eyes go wide, and suddenly she is _entirely_ too close for Stiles’s comfort. He cranes his neck away, shuddering in disgust when her beaked nose presses into his throat. “His, but not his. Pure, clean, but already claimed. Oh, your blood will be so much better!”

Stiles starts screaming again, but this time it’s in pain. The crazy old bat jams a knife in his thigh, and _god damn_ does it hurt when she twists. His pants are ruined, not just because of the new hole they’re sporting, but because of all of the blood.

 _Oh, God,_ Stiles laments, looking down at his lap, blinking through the tears. If he bleeds on the rug, Derek’s gonna kill him.

The knife is pulled out of his flesh, which almost hurts as much as it when it was plunged into it in the first place, but the second jab is the worst, until the third takes its place, and the fourth is an even new level of pain Stiles wasn’t aware existed. He thinks he can hear himself screaming, but his ears are ringing, and the witch is laughing as she brings the knife up to her mouth and licks the blood off.

Then there’s an even louder sound, one that’s near-deafening, so loud it nearly makes his head hurt as much as his thigh, and Stiles finds it in him to smirk at the witch who’s gone three shades paler than white.

And because the weirdness never subsides in Stiles’ life, he’s hit with another surprise; instead of Scott in beast-mode, coming to the rescue of his best friend, it’s _Derek_ who rushes into his vision, _Derek_ who tackles the witch, _Derek_ who is all tooth and claw and feral roars as the witch tries to defend herself with bolts of lightning and fireballs that are conjured from nothing.

There’s movement on one side, and all of a sudden Isaac's floppy curls are in his vision. There’s a small tug, and then Stiles’ hands are free, his feet are next, but when he tries to stand, fire shoots up his leg and it’s like his brain short-circuits, because one moment everything fades to black, and the next he’s landing on his back on Derek’s bed with something warm and solid caging him in.

His hands grip the first thing they find, which just happen to be firmly muscled biceps, and Stiles nearly chokes on his spit because _Derek Hale_ is above him, around him, guarding him from anything and everything in the room - which, now that he has a moment to look around, Stiles realizes is _just the rest of the pack_.

“Where’s the witch?”

When no one answers, Stiles takes that to mean she’s either dead or gone. Given only the slight amount of blood on Derek’s arms and shirt, likely not dead then, but that doesn’t explain why Derek’s still on him.

“Thanks, sourwolf, but can you please-”

Derek’s snarl shuts Stiles up, a feat that hasn’t been accomplished since, oh, right around the time the two of them _met_.

“Derek,” Erica growls. “We have to get him to a hospital. He’s going to bleed out.”

Huh. That explains the blackout.

The low warning growl that erupts from Derek’s chest makes Stiles go still. Slowly, he turns to look up at Derek and sees nothing but glowing red eyes.

“Derek,” he breathes.

Derek’s eyes snap to his, and Stiles’ gut twists. It’s been a long time since Stiles has felt fear in the face of the supernatural, but all of that fear that he’s gone without comes rushing back to him, like he’s standing in the path of a broken dam, and the water rushes him, surrounds him, swallows him up whole.

Derek leans down, and Stiles feels clawed hands move up his spine, cradle the back of his head, lifting the better half of his upper body off the bed and against Derek’s. Stubble rubs against his cheek as Derek presses his lips to the shell of Stiles’ ear.

_”Mine.”_

The word isn’t spoken, it’s pulled through a gravel tunnel that’s been set aflame. A full body shudder wracks Stiles’ body, while his mind scrambles to make sense of any of what’s going on.

“Derek!” Erica takes a few steps closer. “We need to get him to a hospital!”

Whoa, hey now, that’s a hand very close to Stiles’-

 _Fuck._ Stiles sighs, feels his body go limp in Derek’s arms, as the pain from the gaping wound in his thigh has the pain pulled from it.

Erica frowns, takes another step forward-

Stiles is jolted from his position as Derek swipes his clawed hand at the beta.

Boyd pulls Erica backward, and Derek’s claws miss her by an inch. “We need to leave.” His voice sounds calm, but Stiles doesn’t need werewolf intuition to know he’s not.

Stiles sighs. “I totally agree, we need to get-”

Derek’s lips are against the side of his head again, a rumbling growl emanating from deep within the werewolf.

“What is going on?” Scott’s voice is more than a little panicked.

“ _Oh, shit._ ” Stiles doesn’t like the way Isaac’s voice sounds.

“Yeah, we need to leave,” Boyd reiterates. “Stiles, I need you to understand something. Whatever happens, you’re safe, alright?”

Yeah, because that doesn’t sound _totally_ ominous. “What the hell are you talking about-”

“I’m not leaving Stiles with-”

“Scott.” Is that Allison? Stiles can’t see her. “Scott, I’ll explain when we’re gone, but you need to trust us; we need to leave, and we need to leave _now._ ”

Derek shifts, and the pain in Stiles’ leg falls back into ‘excruciating’ territory. He can feel the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, and he twists over to look at Boyd, who’s the only one he can really see clearly at all. “I need to go to the hospital!”

“Stiles. Whatever happens, you’re safe.”

And because Stiles has never met a werewolf who _isn’t_ a complete and utter asswipe, the next time he blinks, Boyd is gone.

Everyone is gone.

Everyone except Derek, who is hot and heavy and still _on top of him_.

“Derek,” Stiles whines as he tries to push the mountain of muscle off of him. “Derek, I need to go to the-”

Derek’s warmth is suddenly gone, and, for some reason, so are Stiles’ _shoes_. When two dull thuds sound off somewhere else in the room, Stiles can only assume those were his sneakers.

Not that he has much time to think about it, because in the next moment Derek is _clawing his pants off_.

And god damn, it’s not like Stiles hasn’t entertained the fantasy having his pants _ripped_ off by tall, dark, and werewolf, but having a massive wound and the possibility of bleeding out _hadn’t_ been a factor.

But then things shift again, because _Jesus Anita Christ_ , that’s Derek’s tongue on his thigh.

Stiles remembers he has arms, and leans up on one elbow, putting his other hand on the top of Derek’s head as he tries to push him away. “I don’t know what the hell’s gotten into you, but you need to-”

His words die in his throat when Derek’s hands tighten on his legs, holding him down. Derek growls, even with his mouth open, even with his tongue laving the blood-stained flesh of Stiles’ thigh and-

 _Holy shit!_ Stiles watches as Derek’s tongue licks up the torn flesh of his thigh, watches as his skin _knits back together_.

Stiles’ other hand falls back, away from Derek’s head, and he brings it back so he can lean on it while he watches as Derek’s weird werewolf saliva heals him.

Eventually, the strain on his back grows too great, and he pulls his arms out from under him, presses the heels of his palms to his eyelids, and lets out a great, shaking sigh. Wow, getting the shit stabbed out of you really takes it out of a guy. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug, and now that Stiles is coming down, he feels it as his hands begin to shake.

Stiles can still feel the texture of Derek's rough tongue as it laves his thigh. The feeling of skin knitting back together is strange, and it reminds him of when a limb goes to sleep, that prickly, static-like sensation. It doesn't hurt, not any longer, so Stiles assumes Derek is still sapping the pain with his werewolf mojo. Stiles would be a liar if he said the sensation is unpleasant, but the fact that the tongue on his skin belongs to Derek 'rip your throat out with my teeth’ Hale is still slightly disconcerting mostly because there's someone less than a foot from his cock, mouthing at his skin like it's been dipped in chocolate and Stiles can't help that he's hard.

It all comes to a head when Stiles nearly jackknifes off the bed as Derek’s stubble scrapes across the cotton covering his dick. “Jesus!” He tries to shimmy his way out of Derek’s iron-like grip, but it’s no use; when Stiles feels the hot press of an open mouth against the fabric caging in the head of his cock, he freezes.

Mostly, he’s just too shocked to do anything other than go limp. Maybe if he plays dead, Derek will get bored and leave. That works for bears, right?

Stiles swears that the growl Derek lets out is one of deep satisfaction and, _oh god,_ he’s so fucked.

And, _fuck_ , that’s the prickle of teeth and the dampness of Derek’s tongue on his boxers.

Stiles sits up as best he can, fisting his hands in Derek’s hair. “Stop! Derek, stop!”

To his surprise, Derek stops. He whines, cranes his neck up to look at Stiles. His pupils are blown, the alpha-red hardly visible at all.

It doesn't help that Derek's half wolfed-out.

“You can’t,” Stiles shudders, only half-wishing he wasn’t a good person. He knows Derek’s past - _with Kate_ \- and Stiles can’t take advantage of Derek when he’s like this. Because it has to be some kind of mind-control, right? _Right?_

“Whatever that witch did - magic, love spell - it’s not you. Fight it!”

Derek whines, and Stiles drags his hands down Derek’s head, pushing his palms against Derek’s warm cheeks. “This isn’t you. I’m not who you want. It’s me! Snap out of it.”

Not in a million years would Derek ever do this kind of thing to Stiles were he in his right mind. Stiles gets on his nerves, Stiles talks too much, Stiles can’t sit still, Stiles gets shoved into walls and pushed over and overlooked and-

“Stiles.”

God damn, the way his name falls off Derek’s tongue goes straight to Stiles’ dick.

He ignores it. He valiantly ignores it. He considers giving himself some kind of award for the way he ignores it. Contemplates throwing an after-party. With booze. So much booze. Enough booze he dies of alcohol poisoning. So he never has to talk about the way he is valiantly giving himself the bluest of balls.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s me. It’s Stiles. Now-”

“Mine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, Derek. It’s just the witch’s magic, it’s just-”

“ _Mine._ ”

Stiles is pressed onto his back by a wall of muscle and heat, and Derek’s nosing at the junction of his neck, all tongue and deep breaths like Stiles is the best thing to ever happen to his senses.

“Mine.”

This time, Derek whispers the word against Stiles’ mouth, the heat of Derek’s breath ghosting across his lips. It’s like a fog sweeps over his brain, and Stiles sighs and relaxes within the grip of Derek’s arms.

He wants this. _God_ does he want this, but he knows Derek doesn’t, would never-

And then Derek’s lips are on his own, and reason and logic promptly abandon ship without life vests, leaving Stiles a mess of mewling want. He snakes his arms around the werewolf above him, shuddering when Derek growls into his mouth at the reaction he’s elicited from the form beneath. Derek’s tongue swipes at the seam of Stiles’ mouth, and he parts it without a second thought. One of his hands has found its way into Derek’s hair, and he cards his fingers through it like he’s only ever _dreamed of_.

 _God damn,_ it's like every wet dream Stiles has ever had; Derek's hands roam over his body, sneak under his shirt, the skin of his palms rough but warm, _so_ warm. Derek's lips press against his, _hungry_.

Thumbs brush against the waistband of Stiles’ boxers, as if asking for permission, and that’s what jars him back to reality so fast, so violently, he nearly gets whiplash. He pushes at Derek’s shoulders - well, _tries_ to, anyway, but it’s kind of like trying to move a mountain. A mountain that is apparently hellbent and determined to get into Stiles’ pants.

“No.” The word is a command, rough, raw, and it sounds so broken when it falls from his lips.

Derek’s eyes slowly turn upward, roaming over Stiles until they come to meet. Stiles’ hands are shaking, his palms are sweating, and for as bad as he feels, Derek is the one who looks _wrecked_. His eyes are alight with confusion and pain, as though Stiles’ rejection is the worst thing that could possibly happen to him.

“Stiles,” Derek practically keens, moving to hide his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“Yeah, buddy, it's me.” His hands are traitorous things as they reach up and card through Derek's hair again. It's meant more to soothe than entice this time, and when Derek hefts a sigh, Stiles thinks maybe it's working.

He stills completely when the next word falls past Derek's lips, pressed warmly against the junction of his shoulder and neck. “ _Mate._ ”

Stiles doesn't even blink, still as stone. It's a trick, it has to be; there's no way he, Stiles Stilinski, heard the word ‘ _mate_ ’ spoken by Derek Hale in reference to him. It's just impossible. Improbable. Impossaprobable.

He sighs, feels the weight in the pit of his stomach sink further. “No, Derek. Not mate. Stiles not mate.”

“Stiles,” Derek heaves against his neck, sounding tortured. “ _Mine. Mate._ ”

Stiles laughs. He doesn't mean to, and the sounds passes out of him unbidden, verging on hysterical. “Can you hear yourself, wolfman? I know that you know that I've read the bestiary. My Latin might not be as good as Lydia's, but I know, for sure, that werewolves who find their mate know the second they meet them. We met over two years ago, and the only thing you've ever done is keep me at arm's length.”

“Scared.” Derek's confession is barely audible.

And it makes perfect sense. It does; look at what Kate had done to Derek, and say, with a straight face, that Derek would recover completely. He fell in love, and it _ruined him_. Is it really surprising that he'd shut his heart up completely thereafter?

Just Stiles’ luck, too; it takes a life-threatening wound before he manages to squeeze the slightest drop of truth from Derek. “When your brain reverts back to a stage where it can form sentences that aren't monosyllabic, we are going to have a long talk about our feelings, mister.”

Derek whines against his neck, but pulls back to look at him. For just a brief second, Stiles fears Derek will run, will turn tail at the prospect of opening up, because the look on his face is one Stiles doesn't like seeing; a frown set with discomfort, brows pinched in uncertainty. But then Stiles, mustering every ounce of courage he has, gently cups Derek's face.

“Am I... am I really?”

Derek nods once, and it's enough.

“Kiss me?” It's not not so much a question; it's everything Stiles has to offer.

Derek's lips are on his half a second after the words have left his mouth, Derek's tongue already meeting his as if the wolf can somehow _taste_ them.

Clawed fingers snake up Stiles' sides, pinpricks delicately coasting against his ribs as they roam up his body. God, Stiles can hardly breathe, can hardly think. Derek's weight above him is the only thing keeping him grounded; without it, he'd be aimlessly floating about the stratosphere.

Derek's mouth is hot and wet, and Stiles never put much thought into the prospect before, but as soon as Derek's teeth press into the flesh of his shoulder, Stiles _moans_. Oh, god, he's found himself a kink. The thought of having Derek's mark on him sends shivers down his spine, and it must go doubly so for Derek, who growls into the crook of Stiles’ neck, pressing his teeth in a little bit harder. He doesn't break the skin - Stiles trusts him enough to simply know he won't - but that doesn't make his heartbeat lessen, doesn't negate the possibility of pain just on the right side of pleasure.

The sensation of Derek's teeth on his neck doesn't disappear completely when the werewolf pulls back. Half of Stiles hopes the ache is a telltale sign that, come morning, there will be a bruise in the shape of Derek's teeth decorating his skin.

Stiles opens his eyes, not really realizing they'd fluttered shut at some point. His view is startling; Derek Hale peering down at him, eyes cautious but curious, no frown in sight. There's a slight flush to his face, a gentle pink visible under his scruff, and it sends sparks through Stiles’ nervous system as he realizes _he_ is the one responsible for it.

Derek leans down, his elbows caging Stiles in, and gently presses their lips together. It's a far cry from the consuming kiss they'd only just shared, but Stiles doesn't mind the change of pace. It gives him a moment to regain his bearing, take assessment of the entire situation. He almost laughs. Almost. But then Derek shifts and their legs slot together and Stiles revels in the fact that he isn't the only one who is as _hard as diamonds_.

“Oh, fuck,” he huffs as Derek grinds against his thigh.

There's cut granite under Derek's shirt, or at least Stiles’ slightly short-circuiting brain supplies when he pushes his hands up Derek's back. The contented noise Derek makes when Stiles presses his fingers against the triskelion tattoo makes Stiles sigh and fall a little more boneless in Derek's grasp.

He likes this. And yes, part of that is because of the sexual nature of the entire situation, but more than that; even half wolfed-out, Stiles has never seen Derek so calm and content. Their kisses are slow and languid, but not without heat; passionate, just like Derek is. He's a little rough around the edges, and grumpy, sure, if that permanent scowl is anything to base judgement on, but despite his outward demeanor, Derek is a good guy. He may not make the _best decisions_ , but he is still a _good guy_.

And, well, Stiles is the sheriff's son; it just wouldn't do for him to fall for someone who doesn't exude a constant vibe of bad boy.

Stiles tugs at Derek's leather jacket, making a disgruntled noise into the kiss. He pulls away, just for a moment, or tries to anyway; Derek's lips follow his, fangs pressing into the tender flesh of Stiles’ lower lip. It's a battle, but Stiles frees his lips, then turns his head sideways. Derek's biting at his neck in an instant. “Off,” he whines.

Derek groans against the skin of his neck, then presses the leg he has between Stiles’ a little more firmly, and Stiles’ eyes nearly cross when the pleasurable friction makes it feel as though his _dick is on fire_.

“Shirt. Off,” he clarifies, tugging at the offending garment.

Derek leans back and shrugs off his jacket, then tugs his shirt over his head.

Stiles almost goes cross eyed. He’s seen Derek shirtless before, sure, but not shirtless, half wolfed-out, astride, and peering down at him like he’s _prey_. And doesn’t that just kick up his pulse.

Derek’s nostrils flare, like he’s scenting Stiles, like he can _smell_ the blood racing through his veins, the quickening of his heart. He’s all swiftness and precision as he leans down, covers up Stiles’ body with his own again, growls into the hollow of Stiles’ throat. His skin is peppered with kisses thereafter, gentle lips turning braver until Derek’s teeth scrape Stiles’ collarbone as he descends.

When that wet, scorching tongue licks across his right nipple, Stiles arches. “ _Holy shit,_ ” he gasps, his fingers gathered in the sheets at his side.

Derek growls in appreciation, slipping a hand underneath his back before turning his attention to the neglected nipple.

Stiles keens. He doesn’t mean to, but the sound wells up in him, spills out of him unbidden. Derek, above him, matches the sound in the back of his throat as he laves his tongue across the peaked bud.

 _Fuck_. Stiles is still in his underwear and he’s more than halfway to shooting his load in them.

It’s like Derek can sense it, too, because no sooner has the thought left his brain than suddenly Stiles finds himself without them.

And it just goes downhill from there, because Derek moves his hands from Stiles’ back and presses his thumbs into the divots of his hips, effectively pinning him to the mattress. Then, in one fell swoop, takes _all_ of Stiles into his scorching mouth, root to tip. Stiles has no choice; he has to give in, swept away by the tide of emotions and lingering adrenaline flowing through his body.

Derek growls around him as he shoots down his throat, drinking _everything_ down between great heaves of breath through his flared nostrils. His hands push Stiles further into the mattress, try to keep him still, to keep him from arching over completely, from flying out of his skin.

His cries of Derek’s name fall into whispers, sweet whimpers when Derek finally pulls off Stiles’ softening cock. When Stiles opens his eyes, little white speckled stars dance in his vision.

Above him, Derek’s eyes burn red.

The world spins as he’s flipped onto his stomach. There’s movement behind him, then the sensation of vertigo overlapped by the sudden addition of searing flesh pressed against his own. Good God damn, how had Derek managed to get naked so fast?

Then the thought flies out one ear, because now there’s a rod of burning iron pressing down between his asscheeks, and Stiles buries his moan into the pillow beneath him.

Derek’s a solid weight above him, hot breath coasting over his neck as it escapes through clenched teeth. Derek grinds against him like a _machine_ , like he was made for it, and Stiles has to grasp handfuls of the sheets to keep from being pushed up the bed by the onslaught of motion. His oversensitive dick grinds against the cotton and he mewls at the sensation.

Derek stills, growls from deep, and then Stiles can feel a rush of hot cum creep down the crack of his ass. Derek shudders, his growl fading into a moan, but when Stiles expects him to still, he only is surprised. Derek shifts them both, raising Stiles’ hips until he’s on his knees, face still half pressed into the pillow.

And fuck, _fuck_ , that’s Derek’s probing at his entrance, with the were’s own cum to ease the way.

Stiles gasps into the pillow. Sweet merciful angels in heaven. Stiles isn’t new to his body; he’s jerked off a number of times with his fingers up his ass, and on more than one occasion, something larger, more _filling_. But when he dares to open his eyes and peer over his shoulder, Derek’s still half shifted, fangs visible past curling lips, a wild look about him. He’s watching his finger disappear into Stiles’ body like it’s the single most powerful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. And how he’s managing to keep from popping a claw eludes Stiles, considering the wolf-like state of the rest of him, but god damn, it doesn’t matter because it’s so, so different from when he does it to himself that he just doesn’t care. Derek’s finger is wider, thicker than his own, and when he feels his rim give way to the second knuckle of Derek’s digit, he gasps and shudders.

Stiles bites his lip, pain slowly creeping to the forefront of his mind.

Fangs press into the meaty globe of his left asscheek, and Stiles feels Derek’s hot breath escape him as he _whines_. Then, the pain lessens, and he knows that Derek must have sensed his discomfort. The noise sounds pained, too, like Derek can’t stand to see Stiles hurting, and it makes his toes curl with the prospect of being so desired. It’s intoxicating, exhilarating, the press of the digit into the depths of him...

And then Derek’s pulling his finger out, and it’s Stiles’ turn to whine, to cry out at the friction, writhe on the intrusion as it’s then pushed back inside him.

Every nerve in his body is firing to the synapses of his brain at a million times the normal rate, and Stiles feels like he might be dying, approaching a higher plane of existence, which is only intensified tenfold when Derek presses another finger into the confines of his body. His knees are shaking with the effort to keep his ass in the air, and there are tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, but it doesn’t matter because the sense of being filled is so overwhelming that it kicks everything out of his brain. It's not all smooth; there's a friction, a pressure there that borders on just the right side of pain, but Stiles can't help it; he _loves_ the sensation of it. It's both the most ethereal and yet grounding feeling he's ever had, and it's _powerful_.

Suddenly, he's empty. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but clamps it shut so hard and fast his teeth clack together with an audible sound that reverberates in his skull. That's the head of Derek's cock he feels at his entrance, spit-slick and molten-hot.

Stiles moans into the pillow as he's breached. God, it's so unlike anything he's ever felt, and it only intensifies as Derek drapes himself across Stiles’ back, skin already slick with sweat, shaking above him.

“Derek!” Stiles shudders when he can feel Derek's hips fit against his ass, completely bottomed out. He can't breath, can't think, can't-

One of Derek's hands splays out over Stiles’ heart, fingers stretched wide. He presses the heel of his palm against Stiles’ skin, effectively pushing Stiles up with him as they both move, in tandem, to sit on their knees.

And it's like being breached all over, the sudden change of angle making Stiles’ skin thrum with anticipation.

Surprisingly, given his frenzied state, Derek's touch is gentle. He encircles Stokes's waist with his free hand, his steel-like grip holding them as close as physically possible.

“Stiles?” Derek whines, whispers against his ear.

“ _Derek_ ” Stiles huffs back at him through laboured breath.

And it's like that's the starting pistol, because Derek is _off_. Using the leverage he has with the way he's holding Stiles to him, Derek pulls out, almost completely, then slams back in.

Stiles scrambles for something to grab onto. One hand reaches back, up, and comes to rest at the nape of Derek's neck. The were takes the invitation, and presses his face into the curve of Stiles’ neck, snarling against the skin like he's _deranged_. Stiles’ other hand finds the one over his heart, pulls at Derek's fingers until they intertwine and _fuck_ , the blood in Stiles’ body is on fire, is _singing_.

“ _Mate_ ,” Derek growls in his ear, pleads against his skin.

Stiles’ brain is a mess, cognitive thought trampled over in the pursuit of pleasure, the heavy weight of being _filled_.

There's another feeling, a new pressure, tugging on his rim, and Stiles’ eyes slam shut when he comes to realize what it is;

Derek's going to _knot him_.

The thought sends Stiles’ heart into overdrive. The only thing he knows is his pleasure, just shy of the border of pain, as Derek’s knot stretches him past where he'd only previously dreamed of flying. Every part of his body is _screaming_ , every inch of skin alight.

And then there is only the bliss of falling over the precipice of the heavens; Derek's knot finally catches, locking the two of them together, the pressure inside of Stiles suddenly singularly focuses on _that_ spot, the place inside him he's only barely brushed with his own fingers. At the same time, Derek's teeth clamp down on Stiles neck, and he struggles for breath because this time, _this time Derek has broken skin_.

Stiles comes sobbing Derek's name.

Then, there is nothing.


	2. Whirlpool

When Stiles comes to, the sun is gently warming the bare skin of his back. It's a pleasant feeling, and Stiles blinks his eyes open as a smile crawls across his face.

The other side of the bed is empty.

Stiles takes a moment to stretch his gangly limbs. He sighs as he does so, grimacing only slightly when his lower back twinges.

Sitting up, Stiles strains for a moment, trying to listen carefully. He hears nothing, however, and it makes him uneasy.

“Derek?”

Stiles’ feet are quiet against the cold concrete floor.

“Derek?”

The only sound is the electrical hum of a naked light bulb that hangs from the ceiling.

‘ _Maybe he just stepped for a minute_ ,’ Stiles thinks.

To pass the time, Stiles decides to shower. When he flips on the light switch in the bathroom, however, he jumps at his reflection. All across his body are finger-shaped bruises and marks left by teeth and sweet, sweet friction. Reaching a hand up, he runs his fingers over the mark on his neck. It's a bite mark, of that there is little doubt, but what strikes Stiles as curious is the way it's already healed. The mark now looks like an old scar, one that's been there forever.

Blushing at the memory, Stiles tears his eyes away from the blemish on his skin and looks down between his legs. There are no knife wounds; not a single one, and no scars left behind, either.

Stiles doesn't know what to make of it, so he doesn't; he turns the shower on and steps inside once the water’s turned warm.

Derek's shampoo and body wash are pleasantly scented, which is something Stiles finds a bit of an oddity. You'd think with such a sensitive nose, Derek would shy away from anything scented. But the smell is mild at best, and reminds Stiles of petrichor.

The list of strange things continues to add up, because when Stiles shifts, expecting dried cum to crackle on the inside of his thighs, nothing happens. Derek must have cleaned him up, then, while he was asleep.

He washes himself and dries off, glad for Derek's taste in the fluffiest of towels.

Derek still isn't home.

Stiles finds his clothes, or what's left of them anyway. His pants are covered in blood with gaping holes on the inside of the thighs from where the witch had driven her knife into his flesh. Stiles tries not to shudder at the memory. His boxers are in much of the same shape, and he can't even _find_ his shirt.

He sighs, giving up. Gathering up the shreds of fabric, he stuffs them in a plastic grocery bag he finds under the kitchen sink. Knowing he has no other choice, he begins looking through Derek's dresser, praying the man is too lazy to throw things out on a regular basis.

Stiles wants to say it feels weird to be wearing Derek's clothing, but it doesn't. Not really, and especially not after last night. They smell like the man, and it eases Stokes's nerves.

Not knowing what else to do, Stiles thinks maybe it's time to head home. If Derek had gone to get breakfast, he would have been back already.

‘ _Maybe he's just stuck in traffic_ ,’ he sighs, not really believing his own lies.

Before he leaves, he digs out his cell phone from the pocket of his torn jeans and pulls up Derek's number. After two rings on his end, Stiles hears the line pick up, but Derek doesn't say anything. Stiles can hear breathing.

“Were you planning on coming back so we can talk about this?” If the words come out a little sharply, Stiles doesn't notice; his heart is beating too loud to hear his own voice.

“Get out of my loft and go home, Stiles.”

The line goes dead.

Stiles’ hand shakes as he pushes his phone into his pocket.

‘ _Of course this is how it goes_.’

If tears stream down Stiles’ face as he drives home, no one is around to see them, so it's like they don't exist, right?

When he gets home, his dad is in the kitchen. “You're up early,” he says over the newspaper he's reading.

Stiles sighs. “Long night.”

“One that didn't include alcohol, I hope.”

Stiles grins and rubs his eyes. “Actually, no.”

“How was the movie?”

Stiles takes a swig of juice from the carton on the table. “Ended up not going,” he says after he swallows. When he puts the carton down, he realizes his dad is staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Son, what happened?” He asks, getting to his feet.

“Got in a fight.” It technically wasn't a lie, right?

His dad scowls. “You alright?”

“Physically? I'm fine. Little sore here and there. Mentally? I'll get back to you on that.”

That earns a grimace from his dad. “I've gotta run for my shift, but if I need to make any arrests, just call.”

Stiles lets out a small laugh. “You should see the other guy.” ‘ _I know I didn't_.’

His dad hugs him before he leaves, wishing him happy birthday and letting him know he'll get his present at dinner. Stiles thanks him. Then, when the front door is locked and the cruiser pulls out of the driveway, he slowly walks to his room. He pulls his phone out.

“Hey, man.” It's always nice to hear Scott's voice.

“Hey.” He cringes at his tone.

“You alright? What happened?”

“I'm Derek's mate.” He doesn't mean to just spit the words out, but there they are, already out of his mouth.

Silence. So, then the others must have known. That’s what the weird argument when they were all leaving while he was bleeding out had been about.

“You alright? He didn't hurt you, did he? I swear to God, Stiles, if he hurt you, so help me, I’ll-”

“He didn't. But I blacked out, and when I came to this morning, he was gone. I thought maybe he was out getting us breakfast or something, so I took a shower, and when I was done he still wasn't around so I called him and that's when he told me... Told me to get out of the loft and go home.”

Thank the stars for Scott's friendship, because Stiles starts to cry, and doesn't think he'll be able to stop any time soon, and the other boy doesn't even so much as sigh.

“Fucking Christ, Scott. I let him fuck me and now he won't even talk to me. I don't know what to do.”

“I'm coming over.”

Scott does, and he brings ice cream.

“So, like, even after the show he put on last night, he would have stopped? Even wolfed-out like that?”

Stiles shrugs through a bite of chocolate chip cookie dough. “He could barely get out single-word sentences, but he somehow found enough control not to hurt me.”

“I have an idea.”

It's a bad idea. It's Scott's idea, so Stiles should have been wary from the start. In fact, he tells Scott so.

“Just be quiet and let the master work.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at his best friend as Scott dials Derek's number.

“What?”

“Hey, are you at the loft?”

“Why?”

“Stiles didn't come come last night.” It's not a lie; Stiles didn't go home last _night_ , but in the wee hours of the morning.

“Let me change. Come up, the door’s unlocked.”

Scott's wearing a shit-eating grin when he hangs up.

“You're an asshole.” Stiles can't believe Scott's plan worked.

“I'm perfect, and you know it.”

“Yes. You're the perfect asshole.”

Scott grins as they begin toward the loft.

Outside the door, Stiles takes a deep breath. Scott suddenly stills, and he tilts his head. Then, his face sours. “He's running.”

“Oh, you're fucking kidding me!” Stiles pushes open the doors. Across the room, one of the windows hangs open. He takes off across the room, nearly slamming into the window frame. “You're a fucking coward, Derek Hale!”

He doesn't even hear the sounds of footsteps in the distance.

Stiles asks Scott to take him home. They don't say anything the entire drive back, and if Stiles cries, Scott's a good enough friend that he pretends not to notice.

His dad looks concerned at dinner and asks him if he's alright. Stiles shrugs in return and sighs, admitting he doesn't feel good. His dad hands him a birthday card with money tucked inside, and Stiles thanks and hugs him before disappearing into his room.

Sunday passes in a blur.

Monday is difficult. It's like he can't focus, and his whole body aches like he's taken part in an impromptu ironman triathlon.

“I want the deets,” Erica says at lunch with a dirty wink.

Stiles doesn't dignify Erica's words. In fact, he doesn't even sit down at their lunch table. Instead, he spends the rest of this lunch period in the library, not sticking around to hear what anyone has to say about the entire fiasco.

There's a four-person ambush waiting for him in the school parking lot after school. Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and Scott stand next this his Jeep, all of them wearing a somewhat alarming look on their faces.

“Whats with the faces? You look like someone died.”

No one says anything. So, naturally, Stiles knows Scott sang like a songbird.

Stiles sighs. “Guys, just let it go. He's not interested; I can take a hint.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “He's always been.”

That makes Stiles fall short. “What?”

Erica huffs. “I forget that on top of being a human with dull human senses, you're also an idiot sometimes. And I guess it doesn't help that Derek is bad at emotions.”

Stiles face palms. “I don't think I get it.”

“What do little kids do when they like each other?” Isaac innocently asks.

“They pick on each other.” Stiles is already bored of this conversation.

“Right.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Stiles looks to all of his friends. “Are you serious?”

Boyd shrugs. “If you had a better nose, you'd be able to smell the want that rolls off him when you're around.”

 _Shit_. If they can all smell Derek's want, then there's no way all of them aren't painfully aware of how Stiles smells the same way when Derek's around. Fuck it, he'll be embarrassed later; there's too much info to process right this second.

Pursing his lips, Stiles crosses his arms. “And you guys were gonna tell me when, exactly?”

Erica rolls her eyes. “Big boss Alpha told us not to, on threat of death. But now that shit has gone down, were stepping in. We're all sick of Derek _pining_ after you.”

“Okay. And you guys have a plan?”

Stiles doesn't like the grins they are all suddenly sporting. He's not fast enough nor strong enough to pull away before they grab him and start hugging him, rubbing their hands on his arms and back, rubbing their faces against his.

“Aww,” Stiles hears, behind him. He turns and sees Allison and Lydia smiling. They both have their phones out, and Stiles can hear the distinct sound of camera shutters.

“I swear to God that if this makes it on Facebook-” Stiles’ threat dies in his lips when Erica gives him a peck on the cheek.

“So the plan is make a Stiles sandwich?”

“We're masking your scent, dummy,” Erica laughs. “Derek called a pack meeting tonight, so he's expecting us. He's not expecting you, though, especially since he told us not to tell you.”

“And he won't smell my scent on you guys?”

“We always smell a little like each other,” Boyd provides, and isn't that a weird feeling, a hug from the stoic guy.

They pile into their respective vehicles, and begin toward the loft. Each building that passes is one step closer to this confrontation, a conversation Stiles begins to suspect he's not ready for. When they all pile out of their cars, Scott gives Stiles another hug. “We got your back, man. Don't worry.”

Lydia fronts the group, pushing the front door open and practically storming into the loft, the staccato of her heels as she walks across the concrete echoing off the high ceilings.

Boyd shuts the door as Derek emerges from the other room. He stops dead when he realizes Stiles is standing there, flanked by the rest of his pack.

“Out. All of you, out.” A flash of red and the other weres flinch back.

“No. You and I need to have a conversation.”

Derek snarls.

Everyone else in the room stands their ground, despite the anger and anxiety even Stiles can sense Derek's exuding.

“This isn't fair to Stiles, and it's not fair to the rest of us.” Isaac's voice is surprisingly soft when he speaks.

“You don't understand what you're talking-”

Derek's words die when Stiles interrupts. “You don't get to say shit like that, when _you're_ the one keeping secrets.”

There's suddenly a ruddy pigment painted high on Derek's cheeks. “I'm not doing this in front of the rest of you. Leave.”

“Only if you promise to actually try to talk this shitstorm out,” Scott growls.

“Fine,” Derek bites out.

They leave, but Derek is still quiet. Then Stiles realizes that the were is waiting for the rest of his pack to get out of hearing distance.

“So,” Stiles begins when he feels the silence has gone on long enough.

Derek meets his gaze, but doesn't speak.

“Were you ever planning on telling me I’m your mate?”

Derek's head snaps to the side so fast it makes Stiles’ neck twinge in sympathy.

“Because that's kind of a big deal, you forgetting to tell me. Or not wanting to, apparently.”

Sighing, Derek scrubs at his face. “I don't know what you want me to say, Stiles.”

“How about starting with the truth?”

Derek's eyes dart back up to his. “You want the truth? The truth is I wasn’t sure if I was _ever_ going to tell you. The truth is I knew, from the moment we met, that you were my mate. The truth, Stiles, is that I am so fucking broken that I knew I could _never_ be good enough for you.”

Stiles exhales. “Good. We’re talking. This is a good start. Keep going.”

“You deserve better, a lot better that someone like me.”

“What were you going to do? Just watch as I grew up and away? Let me leave like I mean nothing? You kept me at arm's length for _two years_ , and it takes getting sliced and diced by a witch before the truth comes out. Do you know how unfair that is to me?”

“Unfair?” Derek seethes. “ _Unfair_? I met you when you were _sixteen_. The sixteen year old, smart-mouthed son of _the sheriff_ , and I couldn't even _touch you_. I knew I had to let you go.”

“ _Why?_ ” Stiles cries. “ _Why_ , Derek? Do you not understand that you deserve nice things? That you can have something you want? That you can _try?_ ”

“Because I didn't want to be like her.”

And doesn't that just kill Stiles’ next response.

Derek seems to calm himself down. He evens his breathing, slows it down. When he speaks, his voice is low, gentle. “I didn't want this to turn out like it did. I wanted to give you a chance.”

“A chance at _what?_ ”

“For you to be you. A chance to fall in love, even if it's not with me. You're _it_ for me. Now that you wear my mark on your neck, I will _never_ want someone other than you. But I'm not it for you, Stiles. You can leave whenever you want.”

“And if I don't want to?”

For a moment, Derek looks hopeful. Then the moment is gone. “Don't say that. You don't want-”

“Shut up. Just fucking shut up. You don't get to _tell me how I feel, what I want_. You don't. If you had been honest from the start, do you know much shit we could have avoided?”

Derek looks away. “I... I was contemplating telling you.”

“When?”

“After. After the movie.”

“We were all going to come back here, after.”

Derek's face is red.

“I was...”

“You were?”

“I was going to ask you to stay behind, after everyone left. I was going to...”

“... Going to?”

Derek shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”

Stiles is ready to pop a blood vessel. “Oh. My. God. Yes, _yes it matters_! It matters to me! It matters to me because you've been keeping this mate stuff _secret_ from me, despite my _direct involvement in the entire. Fucking. Ordeal._ So find another excuse to hide behind, Derek, one that doesn't involve keeping me in the dark.”

Derek's looks chided, and he averts his eyes from Stiles’ stony gaze. “You... You're still in love with Lydia.”

“ _No_. I _love_ Lydia, but I'm not _in love_ with her, and I haven't been for a while, now.”

This gives Derek pause. “But, at all the pack meetings, you still smell like...”

“Like?”

Derek sighs, exasperated. “Like want, Stiles. You smell like lust and desire and _want_.”

Well, fuck. Apparently Mr. I'm-the-alpha-now isn't always the brightest crayon in the box. Stiles sighs. “Are werewolves like vampires?”

Oh boy, does that take the wind out of Derek's sails. “I... what?”

“Are werewolves like vampires in that they don't have a reflection?”

“Stiles-”

“Yes or no.”

“First of all, vampires _aren't real_ , and second, yes, we have reflections.”

“Oh, so you _have_ seen what you look like?”

Derek open hands flail a little in exasperation, his expression darkening. “Yes, I know what I look like. What's-”

“Are you aware that you've been the star of every wet dream I've had over the last two years?”

 _Oh, fuck._ That brain-to-mouth filter of his needs a good talking to. And a good beating. And a good setting on fire.

Derek is frozen in place, completely still. If not for his blinking, Stiles would worry over the idea of his words having the power to stop time.

“... What?”

Oh, god. He's not going to have to repeat himself, is he? It was bad enough the first time. Stiles sighs. “You're spank-bank material, dude.” He makes it a point not to meet Derek's gaze. “Shit, you're kind of the reason I figured out I wasn't completely straight.”

“... But you told me to stop.”

Stiles eyes whip back up to meet the look Derek's giving him. He doesn't like seeing that much guilt on the man's face. “I told you to stop, and you _did_.”

Derek shakes his head. “I don't - I can't-”

“You don't remember the whole night, do you?”

Derek look likes he wants to sink down to the bottom of the ocean. “... Not... Not everything. Just pieces.”

Stiles sighs. “Every time I asked you to stop, you did. Every time.”

“But I - we still-”

“Derek, I didn't ask you to stop because I didn't want you, didn't want _that_. I told you to stop because...”

“Stiles?”

“Because I thought it was some spell the witch had cast, some kind of mind control or something. I told you to stop because _I didn't want to take advantage of you_.”

Derek's eyebrows have crept halfway up his forehead, and his mouth hangs open.

Stiles can _feel_ the blush on his face.

“Why would you think that?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles’ hand sweep up and down a portion of his body. “I'm supposed to believe _you_ just suddenly want _any of this_? Look at me, Derek. I'm gangly, awkward, clumsy, I never shut up, sarcasm is my only weapon, and compared to the rest of you, I am so fucking _fragile_.”

“Face to face with danger, with no supernatural powers, you're the bravest person I know. You're smarter than most _adults_ I've ever met; you figured out Scott was a werewolf _before he did_. You're relentless, persevering, and you don't back down, no matter what.”

Stiles lips quirk up at the corners, his smile shy. “That last bit? You just described yourself, dude.”

Derek closes his eyes and shakes his head. He scrubs his face with his hands again and sighs, and Stiles takes advantage of the distraction, slowly inching toward Derek until he’s close enough to gently tug Derek’s hands away from his face. “Hey.”

One of Derek’s eyes peek open.

“I don’t think it would be fair to either of us if we didn’t at least, like, give this a try.”

Derek squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, swallowing so loud even Stiles can hear it.

“Look,” Stiles sighs, taking Derek’s hand in his own and lacing their fingers together. “I like you. And this whole ‘less than two percent body fat’ look doesn’t exactly hurt.”

Surprisingly, Derek huffs a laugh at Stiles’ attempt to diffuse the tension in the room with sarcasm.

“And, I mean, you just said you think I’m pretty great, riiight?”

This time, Derek just rolls his eyes.

“Riiight?” Stiles prods.

“I regret every life decision I’ve made in my life up until this point.”

“Holy shit, did Derek Hale just _use sarcasm_?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, sobering back up. “My record with healthy or even lasting relationships isn’t exactly stellar.”

Stiles shrugs. “Then we’ll call this a fresh start.”

Shaking his head, Derek sighs again. “I’m not-”

“Can you just, for one second, forget that you think you’re all these things, like broken and unlovable? Because you're not.”

Derek regards him carefully, and Stiles knows the battle is almost over. Taking Derek's warm hand in his own, he pushes Derek's palm flat against his heart. “You're not.” Stiles knows his heartbeat doesn't waver, because he knows he speaks nothing but the truth.

Derek's hand moves then, and it surprises Stiles in the fact that it doesn't move away. Instead, Derek's hand moves up, slowly creeps across Stiles’ collarbone until it's cupping the back of his neck.

Stiles worries about how his heartbeat is suddenly thundering at a million miles a minute, frets over deafening Derek with its rhythm because if it's _this loud_ to Stiles, there's no way Derek _can't_ hear it.

Derek's other hand clenches and unclenches a few times at his side. Stiles understands the need for motion - he's hardly ever still himself - but he swallows down his words, forces his arms to hang loose at his sides. Derek has to make the next move, has to be the one to take this next step.

Finally, _finally_ Derek moves. His free hand moves up, reaches forward, and his index finger slides through one of the belt loops on Stiles’ jeans. Then, Stiles is being pulled forward, close enough that the space between them spans less than inches.

Automatically, Stiles’ arms are put into motion. One hand creeps up and fists itself in Derek's shirt, and the other moves up to wrap around Derek's neck.

But it's still Derek's move, so Stiles stills, despite the deafening sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. Their foreheads bump slightly, then come to rest against one another, their noses gently brushing.

“Can I-”

Stiles’ impatience has his mouth running through the gate before the pistol is shot. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Derek's face softens and he smiles, and Stiles nearly melts when the look eases Derek's features into something gentle and soft. “You don't even know what I was going to ask.”

Stiles smiles back, his lips drawn up so wide it make his face hurt. “It doesn't matter. Anything, everything; it's yours.”

Derek closes the space between them, the finger in Stiles’ belt loop slipping free, his hand coming to rest on the the small of Stiles’ back. Their bodies meet moments before their lips connect, and Stiles revels in the feel of Derek's lips on his because this time, _this time_ he knows Derek is present in both body and mind, that _this time_ Derek wants him.

Stiles lets his eyes flutter shut, falls into nothing but the feeling of Derek's body against his, of Derek's lips pressed to his own. The sensation is like static electricity coasting through his veins, lightning curling at the base of his spine and skull.

He gasps when he feels Derek's tongue sweep across the seam of his mouth. He lets his lips part, and in rushes Derek's tongue, warm and wet and _wicked_. Stiles doesn't realize he's being pushed backward until his back is pressed against the wall and Derek's body is caging him in. He opens his eyes and meets Derek's gaze, and white hot desire pools in his stomach like molten lead.

Derek pulls away, but not before taking Stiles’ lower lip in his teeth and tugging ever so gently.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles pants. “Is it always going to be like this with you?”

Derek presses his thigh between Stiles’ legs, his hands moving to rest on Stiles’ hips. “Like what?” He teases, like he doesn't know.

“It's like static.”

Derek kisses the corners of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, the soft skin of his throat, and the sensation goes right to Stiles’ dick.

“Like I'm on fire every time you kiss me,” he manages through clenched teeth as Derek reaches up, pulls the collar of Stiles’ shirt to the side, and presses a gentle kiss against the mark he'd left only days before. It's like the skin under Derek's talented mouth is suddenly engulfed in flames, and Stiles’ hips stutter forward, sensations flooding through him. He gasps. “What was _that_?”

Stiles can feel Derek's smile against his skin. “This?” He asks, feigning innocence. He presses his teeth to the mark, applying more pressure than before.

 _Christ_ , Stiles’ brain misfires, everything in his vision going temporarily blotchy. “Yes,” he pants. “Yes, _that_ , you _ass_.”

Derek chuckles against him, a stark contrast to the anxious wolf from hardly moments ago. The contradictions are starting to make Stiles dizzy, among other things.

“You're my mate,” he replies, like it somehow clears everything up.

Stiles curses as he realizes that he's been steadily humping Derek's thigh. He stills, but the hand at the small of his back ushers him forward. “Don't hide,” Derek says, and Stiles belatedly thinks he might have just heard Derek Hale _beg_. And _damn_ , doesn't that make his knees go weak.

Derek's hand slips from his back and trails around, stilling at the button and zipper of Stiles’ pants for a moment, and a little tendril of worry weeds its way into Stiles’ brain. Then, all is forgotten when Derek flicks his wrist, pulls down the fly, and wraps a warm, rough hand around Stiles’ aching cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles keens, and Derek growls into the skin of his shoulder. A work-worn hand slides over the soft skin of his dick, and Stiles’ struggles to breathe for a moment. “Der-” the name stops in his throat when Derek's wrist gives a particularly devious twist. Derek's skin feels scorching against his own - not just the hand slowly working him over, either. As Stiles feels his knees go weak, his hands scramble for purchase anywhere they can; Derek's shoulders, Derek's biceps, Derek's neck. Fuck, even Derek's eyes make Stiles burn hot, their gazes coming to meet. “Der-” Stiles tries to start anew, but this time the rest of his name is swallowed by Derek's own mouth.

That's how he comes, with Derek's hand on his cock, Derek's tongue in his mouth, and Derek's scent in his nose. He has to pull away at one point, moving his head to the side so he can breathe. When the sensations proves to be too much, Stiles has to still Derek's motions with a hand to his wrist. Derek growls, and Stiles catches a glimpse of red in his eyes as he watches the were bring his hand up and _lick_ Stiles’ come off his fingers.

“You're gonna be the death of me,” Stiles grinds out between clenched teeth, his hands suddenly a flurry of movement as he forces his fingers to cooperate and makes quick work of the zipper on Derek's jeans.

God damn, last time had been too much all at once, and Stiles never got a chance to look his fill. He licks his lips as he pulls Derek free, and now, with Derek completely within himself, Stiles takes a moment and just _looks, touches_. The skin under his hand is warm, and Stiles isn't surprised to learn that Derek is uncut.

Derek hisses, pawing at his hold on Stiles’ hip and elbow. The sound makes Stiles grin, almost overwhelmed by the fact that it was _him_ that elicited such a sound from Derek in the first place.

And that's what gives him pause, what makes him still.

Derek looks up, meets his eyes. “Stiles?”

“You can't keep things from me anymore.”

Derek groans. “Can we talk about this later, _when your hand isn't on my dick_?”

“No,” Stiles counters. “This is the best time to talk about it because _you can't run away_.”

Derek groans.

“I mean it. You can't hide shit from me anymore. If something is going down, _you need to tell me_. I deserve to know. This entire _clusterfuck_ ,” Stiles twists his hand and Derek twitches in the circle of his fingers, “could have been avoided if you were just honest with me. I don't mean from the start; I get that you were fucked up after all that happened to you, and that I was fucking jailbait. But we could have at least _talked_ , Derek.”

“I know,” Derek growls, pressing his face against Stiles’ shoulder, sighing into the warm crook of his neck. “I know. But I needed to be good for me before I could even start being good for you.”

And, oh, fuck, there it is. The fucking crush Stiles has been harboring for years has jumped off the deep end, head-first, and cracked it's head open on the bottom of the pool; Stiles is _in love with Derek_. It doesn't matter when and for how long, because to Stiles, it doesn't matter. Even if they didn't exactly get along at first - he had Derek arrested as a murder suspect, for fuck’s sake - he understands why Derek kept him at arm's length. It wasn't just so the were could protect his own heart; it was so he could protect _Stiles’_.

“I fucking hate you,” Stiles lies through his teeth as he surges forward and kisses Derek. Derek must hear the lie for what it is, because Stiles can _feel_ Derek's smile where their lips meet.

Stiles can feel Derek tense in his hand before he comes, and it's _electric_. But things don't slow there; Derek pushes forward, presses his lips into the mark he'd left on Stiles’ neck, raises his hand, and brushes his fingers through the mess he'd made across Stiles’ hand. With his other hand, he rucks up Stiles’ shirt and, with his fingers like brushes, paints his come across Stiles’ belly.

“Jesus fuck, Derek. Are you marking me?”

Derek growls, teethes as the mark, and Stiles’ knees promptly go weak. “Mine,” Derek practically purrs against his skin.

When Derek seems satisfied, Stiles’ thinks that's it, the show is over. They had their fun, but now the real world awaits. And while they have, and it certainly does, Derek isn't content. Not yet. He hefts Stiles up, and Stiles, more out of instinct than anything else, wraps his legs around Derek's waist, locking his ankles together. When he looks over to ask Derek what he's doing, the words don't quite make it out of him; Derek's eyes are blown wide, only a sliver of alpha red visible, even with their faces so close. They begin toward Derek's bed, and Stiles practically thrums with excitement as their lips meet, as he runs his fingers through Derek's thick hair.

Instead of dropping him, Derek lays the both of them down gently, Stiles’ back on top of the bedcovers. He untangles himself from Derek's grasp and Derek takes a step back, pulls his shirt up and over his head, then moves to push his pants down.

Stiles presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “How are you this attractive?” He groans. “Seriously. How is this fair?”

Derek remains silent, but there's a fond smile playing at his lips.

Stiles can feel his cheeks heat. He keeps his hands pressed against his eyes as he feels Derek tug his jeans free, then his underwear. Stiles can't make eye contact - he's too nervous, being laid bare before Derek - and he pushes his head into the pillow, craning his neck back until he can see the headboard.

For a brief moment, Stiles stills. This, in turn, causes Derek to pause.

There's a torn piece of fabric resting on Derek's headboard. It's grey, with a splash of blue, and Stiles recognizes the fragment of his favorite Captain America shirt instantly.

Derek clears his throat. “After you left, my bed smelled like you, _like us_. But it faded... And I found it, and... And I couldn't help myself.”

A thrill runs down Stiles’ spine. To be so _wanted_ , it's addicting, like a drug. He pushes up so he's halfway to sitting, just far enough for him to peel his shirt off. With deliberate, slow movements, he balls up his shirt and shoves it under the pillow. With a grin that he projects more confidence into than he thinks he actually has, Stiles speaks. “Well, I'll just have to keep leaving my clothes in your bed, then, until it smells like me when I'm not here.”

Derek _growls_ , and Stiles sighs, lying back down, completely naked. He's still jittery - nervousness is a hell of a drug - but Derek doesn't bring attention to it. He _climbs_ up Stiles, but slows to press a myriad of kisses against the soft skin of his stomach.

Stiles runs his fingers through Derek's thick hair _just because he can_. It doesn't hurt that the feeling help grounds him, too. But Stiles is always in motion, it's just who he is, he can't help it.

Derek is moving upwards now, littering Stiles’ skin with kiss after kiss, but he grows bolder as he ascends, and by the time his lips meet Stiles’ nipples, he's all soft tongue and gentle pressure.

“Fuck,” Stiles keens, back arching.

Derek does the same to the neglected nipple, but moves on, moves up, mouths as Stiles’ neck, applying pressure to the mark until Stiles’ toes curl and he worries he's going to go cross-eyed. Derek maneuvers him, wraps Stiles’ legs around his waist, then leans in and finally, _finally_ kisses Stiles on the lips.

“God,” Derek sighs. “The way you smell, the way you _feel_.”

Stiles, because he's a devious little shit, grins against Derek's mouth and rolls his hips, their cocks moving against one another with gentle friction. Derek sucks in a breath, then growls, pressing down, applying more pressure.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck, pulls them close, closer, reveling in the feeling of skin against skin. He doesn't flinch when he feels one of Derek's hands move southward and probe at his entrance, only wonders how he'd managed to slick his fingers up without Stiles noticing. The first is easy, what with Stiles so relaxed, but the second presents a slight burn. When he hisses, he feels Derek move his other hand, resting it on his hip so his thumb can gently rub the crease of Stiles’ thigh, and suddenly the pain eases, lessens.

It's not long before he's begging to be filled. And if the way Derek's half wolfed-out is any indication, he knows he's not the only one who likes the idea.

Derek moves one hand and grips Stiles’ left ankle, raising it up to rest on his shoulder. He pauses before he lines himself up, though, and Stiles cranes his neck to look up at him. “What? What's wrong?”

Derek, strangely bashful for just a sliver of a moment, turns his head, and Stiles follows suit. Next to Derek's left knee is an opened bottle of lube, and several foil-wrapped packets.

“Oh,” Stiles says, a little dumbly.

“I wanted to ask you, I mean, werewolf's can't contract or pass on-”

“You know you were my first, right?”

At that, Derek's eyes shoot up, catching their gaze. His mouth drops open slightly, and Stiles watches as his _fangs drop_. He inwardly smiles, feeling wicked. “First and only, big guy.”

While keeping eye contact, Derek turns his head and presses a kiss to Stiles’ ankle.

 _Oh_ , Stiles smirks. Possessive Derek is downright hot. So, Stiles does what does best: he opens his mouth.

“No one else has ever touched me like this,” he sighs. “And no one else ever will. All yours, wolf man. Wanna _feel_ you, God, want you inside me-”

And without any more preamble, Derek pushes in, slow, steady, and growling with every fraction of an inch his his cock slides into Stiles.

Stiles keens, but he doesn't let sensation still his words, not when they apparently make Derek _feral_. “Fuck, Der. You fucked me boneless last time. God, I had _bruises_. I want that, want to see where your hands held me down so I can touch them the next day and remember what you feel like stretching me _open_.”

Derek bottoms out and snarls, _actually snarls,_ and it sends a cascade of shivers down Stiles spine. It's either go big or go home at this point, and Stiles isn't throwing in the towel, not yet, not until Derek nails him through the mattress, thank you very much.

“Want your knot,” he whispers, knowing full well Derek can hear his voice like a shout.

And that's it, Derek's control slips. His ears are pointed, his fingers are clawed, and a steady, rhythmic rumble emits from deep within him. He moves so Stiles’ other ankle comes to rest on his shoulder, leans down, effectively folding Stiles _in half_ , and that's it, he's out of the gate, down the track, and Stiles is left clinging to his shoulders _like a lifeline_.

The position, the angle is perfect for Stiles, because in no time flat his toes are curling, his blunt fingernails scraping across Derek's tattoo, and he's practically on the brink of tears from the sheer pleasure of it.

“Der, please,” he begs. “Please, please-”

Derek bites his shoulder, the mark, and growls into Stiles’ skin

Stiles’ can feel himself teetering on the precipice, so close to falling over the edge. Derek's mouth at his shoulder, his cock splitting him open.

“ _Mine_ ,” Derek says through a mouthful of his shoulder.

Stiles clamps down, wails as he feels the tug of Derek's knot on his rim. Sensation floods him, makes his vision go star-speckled, and then that's it, that's all, sweet-hot fire rolls through him and he tries to catch a breath like all of the air in his body is being forced out through his nerve-endings.

Derek’s growl putters off into a whine as he throws his head back and comes. Stiles realizes that he's shuddering, they both are, and he wraps his arms around Derek's neck to sooth and comfort. Derek licks at the mark on Stiles’ neck, and warmth spreads through him. He feels boneless, flighty, but above all exhausted.

Stiles doesn't realize he falls asleep until he wakes up and it's dark out. He freezes. He doesn't mean to, he can't help it, but the fear of rolling over to an empty bed again tears at him.

Derek’s body envelops him from behind, an arm around his waist and a kiss to the back of his neck, a silent ‘ _I'm here_ ’ to settle his nerves.

He sighs into the night. It's not a fairytail ending, but it's a good start.


End file.
